


sandy, we're all getting older

by craftingdead



Series: charlie will make cd a common tag if it kills them [22]
Category: The Crafting Dead
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 05:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18381518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craftingdead/pseuds/craftingdead
Summary: Yes, he was Nick, and he was their faithful leader. Their wonderful leader. Their amazing leader. Better than no one, better than nothing, better than everyone and anyone.





	sandy, we're all getting older

**Author's Note:**

> AND WILL SHE BE SOARING OVER THE SEA?  
> THE WIND IN HER SAILS AND A KNIFE IN HER TEETH  
> AND THE HELM OF A SHIP ON IT'S WAY TO A DISTANT SHORE
> 
> THE MUTED TWILIGHT, AN UNCHARTED ISLAND  
> SANDY, WE'RE ALL GETTING OLDER  
> WHAT WILL THEY DO WITH US?  
> WHEN THEY ARE THROUGH WITH US?
> 
> SANDY, WHAT ARE [WE SAILING FOR?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=blsE7xMJjzI)
> 
> (tw: implications of abuse/gore. rating for general subject matter.)

In the early days, people called him a saint.

A blessing, “finally, someone kind in these horrid days.” He didn’t see it, but they would whisper, “ _keep him kind,_ ” to each other behind their hands. He was a savior, a prophet, tipping the scales from bad to good, slipping off hopelessness with clumsy feet and falling straight into leadership.

He was good to them. He helped them. He was kind to them. He didn’t question anything, let them get away with everything, his mind heart aching and mind amnesiac enough to not understand the criteria of a true leader.

But that didn’t matter. And, anyway, if he got too understanding, they could push him down and always try again.

* * *

 

He was scared of a lot of things. Of heights, of things with big teeth, of getting ripped and torn to shreds. But there was nothing he truly _feared,_ nothing that kept him up for weeks and dragged bags underneath his eyes with a clawed thumb.

(He was afraid of older men, of people who got too close, of people who took too many pictures. But that was okay, he was allowed to be afraid of those things, they didn’t affect them, anyway. And if they did show up, he would be forced to deal with them.

He’s a leader. He pushes through the things that hurt him. And a good leader keeps their lips shut tight while the people they are supposed to keep safe mourn their childhoods and lost friends and families.

No one is allowed to burn. Especially not him.)

It was quite kind of him to continue to support his friends. To hold them up, rub circles into their backs as they sobbed about something from five years ago or three weeks prior.

Selfless and kind, that one.

He is their leader and they are his family, but that just makes it worse.

* * *

 

While his friends sobbed over the deaths of their closest friends, closest allies, he continued to plan out. Fewer weaknesses, fewer chances for people to get to them. Always stay in groups, at least two people, three if their job was going to take more than an hour or two. And if he stained some of the pages filled with ideas and pitches (and sketches and poems but those weren’t important, it was only important if it kept them all alive) with the occasional tear or two, well, he was the only one who looked at that journal. It wouldn't bother them if they didn’t see it.

Man up, be quiet, don’t let them see beneath your skin. That’s dangerous, don’t tell him that, take it back, don’t tolerate the looks of pity.

If they learn what happened to you, they won’t take you seriously. Don’t tell them. Don’t write it down. Idiot, you can’t even remember it, yet, so it didn’t happen, so don’t talk about it, so don’t acknowledge it. You are the most put-together out of all of them, a perfect leader. Leaders don’t get upset, don’t get mad, don’t cry.

And he is a leader through-and-through. Everyone he’s met can vouch for that. He is the best they’ve ever had, and they’d be lost without him. Because if he’s not there, who will they unknowingly leave to crumble and fall behind as they progress with their lives?

It isn’t his fault for being weak and vulnerable. It’s more than his fault, it’s every vein and nerve in his body’s fault.

But they don’t say that because they don’t believe it. Only a few of them give judging looks when he gets too frustrated over a simple equation. He is their leader, best they’ve ever had, and he has no time to get upset. 

* * *

 

“That isn’t funny!” he whines when he hears a friend say a nasty joke.

His friend rolls his eyes and says, “Learn to take a joke.” But under his breath, so he doesn’t hear him say it.

It wasn’t a funny joke. It was a nasty joke, the kind teenage boys say unknowingly after finding it on the internet and thinking since everyone else thinks it’s funny, they have to find it funny, too. A naive sense of horrid that’s only funny the younger you are; the innocence in finding something like that funny is gross, in a way, but it’s there. It isn’t so innocent when a grown man, even older than he is, says it.

The joke tears and worms in his belly and stays there for the rest of the night. It gnaws at him in a way he should remember but doesn’t. It is only spring and he will have to wait two more seasons for it to fully set in.

Then, he will cry but silently, because everything hit him at once along with a tragedy. But for now, he is not allowed to cry; if he does, they could hurt him. It isn’t a fact. But it is written into his movements and has been since he was a child.

The nice ones never grew up happy.

* * *

 

The bad ones never grow up sad.

If he sees that fucking cannibal one more time, he’s gonna lose it.

He’s not angry. Actually, no, he’s slightly angry but it scares him. He should be angry. He should be furious at him for what he’d done to his friends. But being angry means being vulnerable, and people like that _freak_ know how to take advantage of things like that. Of being vulnerable and weak. It isn’t fair, he whines, mentally, but doesn’t say it out loud.

Eyes travel up his body in tune with the unneeded cocking of a gun, and for a second, he felt safe.

A day later, he forgets why he could ever think he was safe.

A crossbow bolt wound is hard to stitch up, the arrow entering at a jagged angle, and it is even harder to patch up a bite wound. It sizzles and snarls at him and the bandages wrapped around his hands can do nothing to calm it down.

“Let me die!” it screams and the stench of rotting flesh is nearly unbearable.

“No,” he whispers, because he is so kind and the best they’ve ever had and if there’s one person he would travel to the end of the world to help heal, it would be him. But that isn’t a good mentality to have when you’re a leader, because it makes it seem as if not all the people who you need to watch over aren’t as important.

Because of course, they are.

Because of course, he’s fair.

The cannibal is always smiling.

* * *

The doctor is almost as bad.

He doesn't care about any of the horrible acts he makes and turns a blind eye to any horrible action going on.

He kills an innocent man and for a minute he doesn't realize what he's turned into, can't hear anything but the screaming of one friend, the sobbing of another, and the grief already building in the rests'. He doesn't register that he's dead until the morning after, before the funeral, watching a grave being dug.

* * *

 

They bare their teeth and clack them together, ungodly loud outside of the little cabin they’re huddled in.

His dog growls and presses down against him, hovering protectively as gunshots ring out from outside.

He can’t see the stars from where he lays, but he hasn’t seen the stars in the longest time. Seaport’s stars always glistened the brightest, and they listened to the sea as it pulled him back to a home he’d almost forgotten (because twins are born in twos and that was the only place he was whole for a very, very long time).

* * *

 

This place is about to blow. Where had he seen that, again?

He watches a landmark get blown to shreds and thinks back to when he saw a child murdered in the exact same way. Hot tears fall down his cheeks and when the man beside him turns to leave, he doesn’t grab his hand and doesn’t pull him away.

Nick hasn’t felt raw grief in a very long time, but he feels it then as he falls to his knees and screams. There was always something he hated about names that started with “R.”

* * *

 

She holds him tight, burying her head into his hair and breathing softly, interrupted by hitches and small sobs and he can’t move.

Her hair smells like guts and blood and there’s a sword bouncing off her hip, dangerously, angled almost close enough to cut and he’s told her so many times how to position it. How not to injure herself. She sticks her tongue out at him and mocks him in an ugly voice and forces him down a pedestal. Maybe being the leader wasn’t the best role when he was around her.

He holds her by the upper half of her back, her hair getting tangled in her hair and listens to her cry about their father, mother, but doesn’t hear anything over the roar in his mind.

Don’t let her get too close, the roar whispers.

But if he can’t let his sister get close, who can he let get close.

He only cries too and for himself in his room that night. It’s far away enough from everyone else that they can’t hear his pathetic attempt at sadness. He is the best they’ve ever had. His arms are covered in pale scars. He was always such a happy child.

* * *

 

Hands wrap around his throat and he chokes until he wakes up.

The monument is too bright but it’s the middle of the night. He stumbles out into the snow and they’ve fallen asleep on duty.

The makeshift gate they put up is pushed open and slips back shut with a small click and the only way to get in and out is from the inside. He doesn’t know the mistake he’s made yet, but he will soon. But not yet.

He gets far enough into the trees that he can’t remember which way he came from and screams at the top of his lungs. The birds flutter away from their spot in the trees and the moon frowns down at him. No leader is supposed to grieve, it says and shakes a finger at him in disappointment.

No leaders are supposed to be sad. That’s reserved for their love interest, for their mentor, for their younger sibling they must take under their wing. For their sidekick, for the sidekick’s girlfriend, for the villain with a tragic and messed up past. For the actual hero of the story because while they may be a leader, not all leaders can be heroes. The only hero he knows is back at the base and soundly sleeping and probably snoring.

He screams again, because he deserves it, and feels like he’s fourteen again. Locked in his room, sobbing against the door because _he_ raised his voice too loud and made it seem like _he_ didn’t love him. But of course, he did.

There was no reason for him to question _his_ motives.

Abuse done to an adult is horrible, but trauma done to a child is vile. What happened to him was evil and traumatizing and he didn’t deserve it. But the jury didn’t believe him and neither did his school so why should he even bother when _he_ had pictures and proof of it scattered throughout his computers?

It’s only vile if they believe it. And it’s only vile if it actually happened. He probably dreamed it. He probably made it up when he was mad at _him._ The evidence was fake, photoshopped, it didn’t happen and it wasn’t real.

The scars he had proved nothing. The ones on his legs and sides were self-inflicted in order to further his terrible, horrible lie. Because children are liars and they love to blame adults for their mistakes and fuck-ups. Because children are manipulative and evil and they scream and whine and are _just so annoying._

If he screams again, he’ll wake up his friends.

So instead he makes his way back to the base.

It takes an hour.

He cuts open his hands climbing over the barrier and falls asleep with them still bleeding, with snow still in his hair and his throat still hoarse.

In the morning nothing happened. Because if anything happened, it was a lie, because children are liars and manipulative and those lying and manipulative children turn into lying and manipulative adults. Even if the line between “adult” and “child” is sketchy at his age, continuing to, again and again, balance on the line between.

But there’s no way he can be a liar and a manipulator because he is the kindest, most selfless, least questioning of all and he is the best they will ever have. So he’s not a liar—just has a hyperactive imagination.

But he’s not allowed to indulge in that anymore. His journal is only used for plans and ideas. He ripped out all his sketches and poems and used them to fuel the campfire on a cold night, sitting guard. Because no one else wanted to. Because he was the odd one out.

* * *

 

Ghetto whispers, “I’m worried about you,” the day after he comes back and he has no response to that. Instead, he continues to pretend that he’s asleep.

* * *

 

They worry and they worry and they worry some more. The bruises pressed into his neck and the borderline claw marks that were raked down his spine and thighs had long since faded but the pressure is still there anytime he tries to shift thoughts.

It taunts him, the feeling, whispering, “You wanted it. You wanted him. You are useless without him and he is the only one who can truly deal with you.”

He chokes on the guilt that it was his fault and chokes out an “I’m fine.” whenever anyone asks him about it, a period at the end and all.

* * *

 

(He was afraid of older men, of people who got too close, of people who took too many pictures. But now, he no longer can be afraid, because cannibals and bruises that stayed past their welcome had been added to that list and, well, that can't be allowed, can it? Those were topics on the daily. They talked about bloody flesh and how the devil would, one day, drag people like the doctor and the freakshow and the traitor down to hell and they would pay and repent for what they did.

But _he_ was never found guilty. So how could he be sure any of those three could be found guilty? God would probably welcome them with open arms while he was forced to live throughout his trauma for all of eternity because of one fucking mistake he made such a long fucking time ago and he hated it.

Was it fair to be afraid of him? They drove him out. He wouldn't be coming back for a very long time. But the memories made his hands shake and forced him to excuse himself from meetings so he could cry to himself in his room until salt stained his lips and drowned out out the taste of blood.)

* * *

 

Everything is okay!

Everything is fine!

They defeated the evil, it wouldn't come back and even if it did, they were fucking prepared for it because they had learned from their mistakes and they were getting better.

The Major patted them on the back and told them how proud he was of all their effort, then turned to him and asked him if he could do something for him. Because, of course, he had been at the CDC for so long, it would be good to get some fresh air, wouldn't it? (Blood made him want to throw up.) He was a leader, he was supposed to make sacrifices for his people and if that meant losing a single day of relaxation well, that wouldn't be too bad, would it?

He wasn't sick. He wasn't ill. He hasn't been depressed since he was sixteen.

* * *

 

He leaves and doesn’t come back.

He meets a girl-leader who is better than he had ever been and reminds him of a boy who killed himself so the rest of them wouldn’t die.

He meets her friends, a murdered nurse, the men who pulled him from the lake. He doesn’t acknowledge those two at much because he is ashamed at his vulnerability. He always has been. What kind of leader is he?

He helps them solve a problem. He meets a strange murderer. He’s too tired to deal with anything more so he watches as their base and home burns to the ground.

The girl looks at him, and says, “This is your fault,” in a shaky voice. “All of this only started when you came.” She isn’t right but she is.

He returns home to a burning building and swears the universe was made so he always was punished for others misdeeds. The life of a leader indeed.

* * *

 

Everyone can agree on one thing: he was the best leader they ever had.

Even if he ran away. Even if he was a fucking coward. Even if he never talked about his life and never cried and never showed weakness. Even if he was a douche sometimes and got way too angry for a leader other times and even when he swore and yelled and screamed (but they didn’t hear that last one so it didn’t count). They rise a fire up for him and watch as it burns down because, if he hasn’t come back yet, he’ll never end up doing it. His sister cries for a dead boy.

He was kind, he was selfless, he never questioned others, he held them as they cried.

He was a blessing and a saint and a savior and the best. They. Ever. Had. And they fucking knew it.

But it was time to try again and find someone new because innocence never stays for long.

* * *

 

Yes, he was Nick, and he was their faithful leader. Their wonderful leader. Their amazing leader. Better than no one, better than nothing, better than everyone and anyone.

He was Nick and he would die in a pyre of his own trust but that was okay because he was the best and they could shape a martyr out of his ashes. Because no one stays for long. And they can always find someone new.


End file.
